It wasn’t best practice: training for Crestana meant wide open fields, plenty of room for error in case she misjudged her limits. Even if grass choked on Aether, no one would shed a tear if she killed a swathe in a sea.

But that same swathe—or rather its area—was worth more in a small apartment complex. The walls were thin, and so were the floors. The margin of error tightened drastically.

But on the flip side, it made for better training.

She placed herself in between two dusty Pattern Readers, one in her line of sight slowly playing Terponin’s String Quartet 1802, the other behind her playing a radio-drama adaptation of More Than One Red by Terrence Jarrow.

She pictured her margin of error: a focused cone that extended forward, stopping before it reached the floor, ceiling, or the far wall. The constraints were a familiar standard, the consequences they came with were new.

She could stop her in the event things turned south. Somewhere in her was a big red switch, a break in her concentration. It was easy to find, provided her body itself remained well defined, separated from shadow. To that end, she had tied the curtains back so sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating the aftermath of her feather dusting floating through the air.

Crestana put her trust in the sun and closed her mask’s shutters.

The voices of the radio drama behind bled into the cascading strings in front, falling in time with each other as though to the same rhythm. The voices rose in pitch and intensity, and so did the strings in vigour and volatility.

Blended together, she found it hard to single one out through hearing alone. The resulting sound was distracting, tempting her mind to focus on separating one from the other. The more it succeeded, the further away she strayed from her goal.

Frustrated, Crestana fired immaturely. The choking sensation—as close an experience to drowning a Spirit could get—was barely more notable than a muscle spasm to her now. But sheer repetition still wasn’t enough.

The room fell silent, the faint blue running down both Pattern Readers weakly flickering as Crestana tightened the noose indiscriminately. She quickly loosened her body, and sound bloomed again, spreading itself across the small office and trickling out the window.

Her shutters fluttered, voice box transforming her release of tension into heaving breaths. She undid her hair tie, easing the pull on her scalp.

Again. She could go again.

Both pieces played simultaneously, disconcerted and out of sync. The vocals rose as the quartet fell, tension high, pitch low. Crestana only allowed herself a moment with the sound before she focused, spending her mental capacity on the small, imaginary cone that extended before her.

The lines of the Pattern Reader, the blue streaks of shining Aether rather than the sound it produced, became her new obsession.

The small area before her, the small box that she envisaged as her enemy.

She closed her eyes…

A shrill ring bounded over both the radio drama and the quartet, inspiring the sort of panic she felt when caught red-handed.

Crestana stood from her seat, scrambling to turn off both Pattern Readers before this time; a knock bounced down the hall. It would have been proper to announce herself, reassure the visitor she was coming.

But if she could get out of whatever reprimand she may face from a neighbour, she would take it, and slink away from the door until the knocking stopped.

She crept down the hall, heels following her toes. Her socks masked her footprints as she approached the door and pressed her mask up to the peephole.

An old man dominated her distorted view of the outside world, his wrinkled face and combed, greying hair suggesting he was pushing his sixties. Besides a three-piece suit that hid a burgeoning abdomen, the cane that rose to his chest was particularly eye-catching.

Styled like a gentleman’s cane, with gems encrusted into a brass knight’s helm, the stick’s length profiled it more in-line with a staff or a walking stick. Certainly long enough to fend off a longsword.

But more importantly, no one so wealthy would ever even consider living in the district. It wasn’t a neighbour.

She opened the door.

“Hello, can I help you?”

“Oh…hello. Might I have the right place?”

“This is Excala International Private Investigators.”

“And you are?”

“I’m just here to maintain the office while the owner is gone.”

“I see,” the man said, tapping his cane against the floor as his mouth contorted into a shrivelled frown. “When will she be back?”

“I can’t say, sir. Would you like to leave a message?”

“No, no,” he said, waving away her offer. “But if I could leave my card, I’d like a call back when she returns.”

Holding his cane, the man reached into his coat, and only then could Crestana fully appreciate the selection of rings on his left hand. Rather than beautiful, she could only think of how a blow might disfigure whatever face they connected with.

Never mind scars, it’d leave a depression in the bone.

After rummaging, he produced a small, egg-white business card and handed it to her.

“Thank you,” she said, passing an eye over it. “I’ll leave a message.”

The man smiled, refitting his suit and tipping an imaginary hat. The cane gently swung, and its decadent head reinterpreted the hallway’s dull light as dazzling.

Crestana watched the man leave, noticing the smallest limp in his step. It by no means crippled him, but the asymmetry in his step gave the cane much needed context.

She shut the door and returned to the office, tossing the business card onto Evalyn’s desk. He looked rich, but Iris’s family didn’t starve for money, nor was Crestana herself excited by the prospect of a large paycheck. With only a business card to go off, it was infinitely more interesting to speculate on one of the many missing spouses already in her notepad.

Still, the cane stood out to her; the light sparkling through the gemstones burnt into her vision. She wasn’t a stranger to heirloom-worthy jewellery, but craftmanship and beauty aside, there was a presence to the cane’s head that whispered to the same part of her that longed for the shadows.

The phone’s shrill ring wrenched her from the cane’s spell, and she reached for the receiver, stopping her hand until after the second ring.

“Hello, this is—”

“Crestana?” Alis asked.

“Y-yeah?”

“I’m bringing Moira back.”

Crestana flashed a glance at her watch. “It’s early. Are you sure you’ve got enough to go off?”

“No. I’ve only got a few names, but I don’t want to stay much longer. This might…just be paranoia, but I think I’m being tailed.”

Crestana shot a look at the hallway. “Are you sure?” she muttered into the receiver.

“There’s a pair of tourists. They haven’t been following me, but I’ve seen them over and over.”

“It’s a small town I wouldn’t be surprised if—”

“I know, I know…but it’s been too many times to call it coincidence. I thought they were suspicious when I first saw them, and I tried to convince myself I was overthinking things.”

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“All right. When will you be back?”

“Soon. Great Library. If I can’t lose them in there, I might as well hand myself in.”

“Okay, I’ll meet you there.”

“Don’t bother. I don’t want them to associate you with me.”

Crestana felt it again; the sense of helplessness the more experienced seemed so eager to force on her. But she had to concede she was a card best kept close to their collective chests. Insurance for a rainy day.

“Do you know for certain they haven’t been tailing you for longer?”

“No…I guess it’s a possibility.” A moment of pause as the line cut, waiting to be fed another coin. The beeping broke, and Alis’s voice returned. “Have you received any more calls or visits or anything?”

Crestana dug back into her memory, recounting her day from the first minute in the office.

“I got a call from a lady who wants a witness testimony examined for discrepancies, a small business wanting a way out of a protection racket, and…I guess I got a visit from an unusual person.”

“What were they like?”

“Well dressed, suit and all. He had quite a tall cane, halfway to a walking stick. The head was brass, like a knight’s helm, had gems incrusted in it. Oh…”

“Oh, what?”

“The gems. They resembled the ones in your brass knuckles.”

“Okay…oh for God’s sake.”

“He was asking for Evalyn, but not by name. I’m not sure of his intentions; he never mentioned why he visited—”

“Did you get a name?”

“I didn’t, but…hold on.”

Crestana reached over the desk, grabbing the card and turning it over.

“Peter Nair,” she said.

Alis, for a moment, was silent.

“We’ve found our guy.”

Alis stepped off the train, wary of the couple two carriages down, who’d trained into the city with barely any luggage at all. They’d convinced him the moment they followed him into the regional station, and his panic had only solidified once they’d mirrored his transfers beat for beat.

He’d carefully hidden the fact he was onto them: his experience in the U.L.E.F. had at least taught him that much, but shaking them had proven difficult. More people, more streets, more opportunities to break free of their gaze, but he found them uniquely inescapable. Much of their cat and mouse was a one-way affair, with him on the losing end.

He held onto Moira’s wrist, and the girl could intuitively sense the danger without Alis having to utter a word. They stepped onto the next tram headed towards the Great Library, and finally finding a seat, Alis spoke for the first time on their return journey.

“How did you find us?” he asked. “Our particular P.I. agency?”

The girl thought for a moment, the empty void between her arms once again pronounced by noisy, irritating scratching.

“I asked where you were,” she said. “Until someone knew.”

“Okay…how did you know about us?” he asked.

The girl pondered again, eyes searching for an answer as the edges of her mouth quivered. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t need an apology. I just need to know.”

“I…I don’t know, I just…remembered you were important…that maybe you could help me…”

Alis barred the frown from showing on his face and scanned the rest of the tram’s occupants. He couldn’t see either in their car, which most likely meant they were in another.

Crestana’s description of Peter Nair put him high in Alis’s Vesmosian social order. Red or grey, but purely based on the cane, he was willing to bet on the latter. He didn’t need to know what that sort of human would want with a girl like Moira.

The couple had tracked Alis for miles; nothing was to say Crestana wasn’t in for similar harassment if she left the apartment in broad daylight. Thankfully, she could travel through shadows: dusk, and she’d have free rein over the streets undetected.

That saved him from worrying for two, at least. He could focus on his own pursuers, and why exactly they were trying so hard.

The tram eventually came to a stop, and Alis tugged on Moira’s hand. He stood up first, and she followed closely behind. Stepping onto the pavement, Alis only had so much cover and to experienced tailers, practically none. An empty street, the cawing of crows and the tram’s rumbling followed its master, leaving the street in a mellow stupor. It made him an easy target, inviting, almost. Assuming they didn’t turn their strategy to attack, it would work towards his advantage.

The Great Library was expensive, and since the tree sprouted over the capital—now bringing sunset onto certain parts of the city hours too early—it had turned it into another city block. If they’d follow him this far, they wouldn’t turn tail right before the home stretch.

Alis picked up the pace as the dilapidated building came into view.

“Where are we going?”

“Somewhere we can run away. Stay quiet.”

He veered through the front door; the building heeding his hurried steps and rushing to clean up the interior. Moira squealed as the floorboards flipped underneath her feet and chandeliers crashed down from the ceilings.

“Quiet,” he said, wrapping his arm around her shoulder.

Al poked their head from underneath the front desk, flapping their wings and yawning. “The hell was that?”

Alis glanced over his shoulder. “We’re being followed,” he said. “Help me lose them.”

Al gave him a stink eye, nodding him to the spiral stairs.

“You owe me one,” the Spirit muttered as they passed them and ascended the creaking staircase. Reaching the second floor, Alis heard the heavy front doors grind against the floor as they opened. He didn’t risk a glance backward.

In his usual seat, Alis waited in silence for an all clear. As expected, Moira couldn’t read, and Alis wasn’t in a state of mind to read to her, either. She sat the seat beside him, staring at her own palms halfway in a state of shock.

Almost fifteen minutes had passed since the entrance had sealed shut behind them. Their pursuers were likely long lost; they were free to leave whenever they wanted, but Alis was hoping Tony would do him the favour of apprehending the pair. They had a name to work with, and with some luck and lack of loyalty, they could attach some answers to that name, too.

“How are you feeling?” Alis asked tentatively.

“I…what’s going on?” Moira asked, croaking the words. “You just…started dragging me and now we’re here.”

The thought only then occurred to him how the situation looked from her perspective.

“Sorry,” he said, the words tossing around in his mouth. None served as a good place to start.

“Two people started tailing us when we left the first inn, but I couldn’t shake him. I called Crestana and asked her if she’d noticed anyone suspicious, and it looks like she received a visit from Peter Nair, the person who booked your room.”

Moira offered him a blank stare in return for his efforts. He bit his tongue and tried again.

“Two people started following us after we left the first place we checked, then I found out that the person you were…probably travelling with, had visited my friend. You know, the Spirit girl.”

Moira nodded. Slowly.

“So, We’re going to…try to talk to the people who were following us. They might know something about you or the person you were travelling with.”

“But…they’re dangerous?”

Alis pursed his lips. It was innate for children like her, like them; a lack of biases ignored allegiance and agenda. All that existed was friend or foe.

“Yes, they might be,” he said, knowing it was useless to try to hide it.

The cliff of tomes behind them parted in silence, catching their attention with the sudden glow of a streetlamp dangling from the roof of the gap. One by one, more of its brethren sparked to life, and through the new opening a pathway emerged from the void.

“We caught them,” Al said through a disembodied voice. The Spirit showed themselves, batting their wings against a pair of books and pushing themselves through. “Well, Tony did. They made a hell of a mess.”

“They retaliated?”

“Oh, you bet yer ass they did. Quicker if you see for yourself. That way.”

Al flapped onto Alis’s shoulder, again pointing him down the newly formed path. He grasped the air for Moira’s hand, but wasn’t able to find it. He turned, only to see the girl had shrunken further away.

“What’s wrong?”

She looked disturbed, cowering further into her chair. His first assumption was that she referred to the stalkers, but her eyes, the pair that had been sceptical of the entire library, were square on Al.

“She’s scared of Spirits,” Alis explained, and Al hummed his understanding.

“Take it slow, she’ll be right once she meets Tony,” Al muttered back. “I’ll trade ya a tour for a damn explanation.”

Alis held out a hand to Moira, and her eyes, for a moment, fell back onto him. He seized the opportunity and tried to smile.

“I’ll make sure you’re safe. You’re my client, remember?”

As expected, it felt nothing but forced. The way his lips curled was unnatural, and his teeth had never so clearly seen the light of day. Anyone, especially a child, would see the expression for what it was.

He was entertaining her the only way he knew how, and perhaps as a consolation prize, Moira gave in, taking his hand and following his lead out the door.

They found themselves on the other side of a wall of books, the other side of a room very similar to the one they had just left. On their short trek from one to another, they’d come across the aftermath, strewn across the book walls like paint on a canvas.

Two types of magic: one was structural, the user of said magic spawning great vines that kept the moving walls in place and at bay, and caught the living chains and cloth before it could ensnare them. The other was purely offensive; the only remnants left of it were perfectly circular holes blown out of the shelves.

Two wooden sticks and a Space Hopper lay on a lectern, the latter addressing him with no short measure of fatigue.

“I wish you wouldn’t,” Tony sighed before Alis could even get a word out. “These were on them.”

Alis regarded the two sticks carefully, refusing to touch them in case they misfired. He didn’t need to, anyway.

“I’ll be a moment,” he said, directing the words to Moira. “I think these people are dangerous, so I need to talk to them alone…why don’t you…try asking these two Spirits their names.”

Moira shook her head. Alis pleaded, but her reluctance only fuelled more intense head-wagging.

“Moira?” he asked, lowering his voice. “Do you trust me?”

Her head stopped moving, but it hesitated to shake along the other axis. Eventually, she ventured a small nod.

“Well,” he said. “Me, and many other people I know, would trust these two librarians with their lives, okay? They help a lot of people. You can trust them, and you can ask them for help.”

What was that phrase he often heard Mr Maxwell ask Iris?

“How does that sound?”

The girl stared at her shoes, fragile body swaying from side to side. Eventually, she gave a small, barely noticeable nod, just enough to concede, but to make sure he knew she wasn’t happy about it. It seemed to him like that kind of nod.

He turned towards the wall, and Tony, with the brush of his tail, opened it.

The inside of the room was empty, resembling more a cell than what Alis had grown used to. Their hands were bound by ancient chains, where Tony had found them was a mystery, but judging by the damage outside, they seemed like a last resort.

The stalkers didn’t react as he entered. The man had propped himself upright on his knees, but the woman wasn’t so lucky. Her own body weight was pressing her face into the floor.

Both were fairly ordinary appearances-wise, but they weren’t faces he expected to see so far west. Sharper, narrower features he was used to seeing on the cattle-movers he had navigated almost daily.

“The Empire’s border is our world’s shield.”

Their friendly demeanour gone; they looked like nothing more than a pair of strangers.

“Her great armies are our world’s sword.”

His indecisiveness had delivered unto him the perfect incentive. Alis cursed fate.

“And we as its people shall be our world’s steel.”

The two glanced at him, eyes examining his face. The man smirked.

“Traitor.”

Alis walked out of the room, knowing neither would talk easily, if ever.